


I Could Have Had a Salad

by Sora_Tayuya



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bittybones, Bitty Bones AU, Gen, No Romance, No pairings - Freeform, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:23:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sora_Tayuya/pseuds/Sora_Tayuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm supposed to get a "companion" Bitty. If I don't actually put effort into this endeavor, maybe things will just work out in my favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which I Don't Get Fruit

**Author's Note:**

> Why is this my first posted story on this site?
> 
> Because I’m a lazy jerk who isn’t trying very hard, that is why.
> 
> Trying hard takes brainpower, which I’ve been spending on intense plots for other projects I’m working on that aren’t self-indulgent fun things. Though usually when I have “fun” it translates on paper to me being a terrible person. This is why I don’t write self-inserts anymore, clearly.
> 
> Based pretty much from fucken-crybaby's Bitty Bones AU on tumblr. They are cool. Great ideas they've got going on there.

I stared into its big, red eyes.

He stared back.

I narrowed my eyes, daring him to do something.

He started crying. Big, doe eyes, with hiccups interspersing the fat red tears. He fell on his rump, wailing.

My eye twitched.

How can someone devote constant attention to something whose main character trait is _crying_? 

Weird.

My eyes rolled up dramatically. I looked to the side while he wailed. I looked back at him. Still crying. I blew a puff of air up moving a lock of hair out of my face.

It flopped back into my eye.

He was still crying.

Wow.

“Does this thing have any other mode besides ‘crybaby?’”

Approximately seven fist sized beast skulls materialized out of thin air before my eyes, power charging their cores all different colors of blues and reds. I perked an eyebrow.

“Jeez, so sensitive.” I stood, cracking my back as I swept my gaze around the bitty store. The Sans-model skeleton bitties were the easiest to care for, and I needed something low key.

Constant mothering? What a drag.

I did my research. I still didn’t like anything I read. Nothing…’fit’ my personality.

I’ve never been too good at figuring out my personality through online quizzes. But I have to at least look like I’m _trying_ to find a good fit.

I made a noise halfway between a grumble and a snort. It was satisfying. Had to think how to waste time until I gave up and left.

Because clearly, there wasn’t gonna be one that just walked up to me and said ‘howdy do, my name’s ______ and I’m your bestest friend!’

Because that is dumb. And I would _not_ trust _anything_ that tried that.

This was the 5th bitty adoption center I’d been in. None of that cartoon magic had happened yet.

Maybe I was actually supposed to put effort into this…?

Nah.

Stared at the poster on the wall some more. Seemed…colorful.

Aside from the fact I had read every piece of information on bitties online and knew pretty much every type and how they functioned.

I’d been standing there too long. The guy behind the counter came over to assist me. Frick.

“Hello ma’am, do you need any assistance today?” When my answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming (and my face didn’t change expression), he continued, kindly (albeit a bit nudging).

“Well ma’am, if you’d like me to tell you more about our bitties here I can try and provide any information about the bitties we have in the adoption clinic-“ I stopped him there with a pause sign. In the air. With my hands.

Impressively he wasn’t offended.

“Gimme a quick rundown: the smallest you’ve got, or any that have been here the longest.” I pointed a finger at him. “And don’t go getting their hopes up. I’m getting _one_ , and I’ve been all over town looking. I’m not expecting to find anything.” He gulped.

“O-oh, well, alright then, ma’am.”

I’ve worked in customer service. They appreciate things like this. Getting straight to the point, not making employees go over every little detail or use their “customer voice.” They appreciate someone who knows what they want and gets to the point.

I’m pretty sure.

He walked right back to the same glass enclosure I passed a few minutes ago. The same crybaby was bawling his eyes out, surrounded by a gaggle of little skeletons all trying to sooth him. Seemed all the attention was making him sob harder.

Wimp.

The guy (nametag says Trevor; such an unfortunate name) starts explaining.

“Well, ma’am, we have the highest turnover rate of the adoption clinics in the entire Ebott region, so there really aren’t many bitties here who have been with us for a while.” He looks down at the skeletons. Counts something on his fingers.

“I’d say we have, um, you were interested in the smallest bitties we have and those who have been with us the longest, correct? Well, we have no returnees at the moment aside from Cherry here-“ he gestured to the crying one. Of course. I look at the bitty. He looks at me at the mention of his name.

At my deadpan expression he breaks out in a new wave of tears. Every skeleton around him glows with magic build up, looking up at me in a wave of righteous indignation.

The intent to maim is strong today.

Employee not being paid enough to deal with me finishes speaking. I droned him out. Sorry guy.

“-and the smallest bitties we have right now are just under 3in.” He looks at me, who is not looking at him. I look at him. He looks at me.

I tack on my least award-winning flat expression of ‘I am satisfied with what information you have shared with me.’ He releases a very dejected puff of air and trudges back to his post at the counter.

I can see a co-worker peeking her blonde head from the backroom, visible eye narrowed threateningly.

 _Blondes_.

I look at the bitties in the tank. None of them look happy to see me.

It feels like another unsuccessful trip. Dang.

I turn towards the door. There were still two more stores in town. If there wasn’t anything interesting there, I had a legitimate excuse not to get anything. ‘Just giving it a try’ might be passable at this rate-

“…you could apologize, ya know.”

I freeze. One of them spoke to me. Which one…? I twisted my neck, but all the bitties were either focused on the crying one again or were pointedly ignoring me.

One particularly edgy one flipped me off. 

So mature.

“Up here, dollface.” Neck snapping to the windowsill, I saw a bitty I hadn’t seen at any of the other clinics. A Bro Papyrus-model skeleton. 

Huh.

Orange hoodie, sneakers- _smoking something oh no_ \- oh wait, no, no that is a sucker. Okay good.

He’s looking at me, annoyed. I’m not saying anything. Crud.

“So. What’s your story, Stretch?” For a Papyrus-model, he is…short. Noticeably. Even sitting down, away from the other bitties (even the Sans-models), it is clear that he is barely two and a half inches tall. 

Really short for a Papyrus.

He chuckles once, taking the sucker out from between his teeth.

“Guess you aren’t one to apologize, huh?” I blink. Right. I look down at the small, crying thing in the tank. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention anymore. I look back at the Bro.

“I don’t think it would help much.” He gives me a _look_.

“Ever heard of ‘it’s the thought that counts?’” I gave _him_ a look.

“That philosophy never did much for me.” I look back at the sniffling Sans. “It’s best if I just leave before I make things worse.” I look back at Stretch to get his reaction.

He’s staring at me. Openly. Like he’s surprised.

Um.

I don’t blush. I grimace. “I, uh, tend to have that affect on people. Removing myself from the situation makes things better.” He’s still looking at me with that weird expression. Frick. I sneak a look at the door. So close.

“Well,” he starts, putting the sucker back between his teeth and leaning back against the window. “You wanted to know my story, right?”

Oh. I did say that. I grimace harder. He grins slyly.

“Adopt me and I’ll tell ya.” It’s my turn to gape. It feels very undignified. Drat.

I look at him. I know his type: low maintenance, intelligent, keeps to himself, loyal, other good traits. I had skipped Bro models for four reasons.

First: smoking. Not doing it. Won’t be around it, won’t condone it. I don’t care if they don’t have lungs: I have lungs. It gets into clothing. It gets into carpet. It gets into wallpaper. It inspires bad habits in other people.

Clearly this won’t be a problem with this guy. I like suckers.

Second: height. Most Bros were pretty tall – average Bro is, at shortest, 4-5in. Still too cumbersome for me. This guy is…short. 

Could be a fun point of contention.

Third: all Papyrus-models are known for being pretty sociable. They do better with other bitties and are recommended to be adopted alongside at least one Sans-model. And I’m not getting more than one.

This guy separated himself from the others, though. Sitting alone on the windowsill. I wonder why.

Fourth: Bros are…uncommon. None of the other shops I visited had any. I didn’t ask if any had been recently adopted due to the deterrence of Reason One. But Bros were sort of rare. No one knew why. There weren’t too many of them.

He’s still looking at me. Waiting to see if I’ll accept the out of the blue, unreasonable offer.

…I’m such a sucker for a good story.

“Deal.” I reach my hand towards him on the window, pointer finger extended.

He’s gaping. He didn’t think I was going to accept the deal.

Now I _know_ I made the right call. He knew it was stupid. He didn’t think I would do it.

There is _nothing_ I like better than proving someone wrong.

He looks at my finger dumbly. It is pretty funny, but a bad look on him.

“Well, shake on it.” He blinks again.

“Oh.” He reaches a skeletal hand out and clutches the tip of my finger, wrapped around the nail. We shake lightly. He relinquishes my hand. I look at him. He looks at me. He hasn’t stood up yet.

I quirk my eyebrow.

“You waiting for a taxi? Or can’t you shortcut?” He blushes orange and blinks out of existence.

Huh.

I turn and he’s already at the counter. He startled the guy leaning against it. He might have been staring at my butt. His head clunked against the counter as the arm he was using to prop his chin jerked away from the sudden appearance of the bitty.

Ouch.

“Oh, you…you want him? Oh that’s…cool. Yeah.” He’s flustered. Maybe he was staring at my butt earlier. Frick.

“Something wrong with him?” The bitty shoots me an unamused scowl. The employee backpedals.

“Oh, uh no, that isn’t what I meant! I just- you were asking for-“ he’s flustered. “Well, er, never mind. Here’s his file-“ he takes the first file off a nearby stack. “I’ll let you look through it while I grab the paperwork for you.” He walks swiftly to the back room. I look down at the file in my hands.

There isn’t much there: a single sheet of paper, a picture of the skeleton, physical description, past names (none), past residences (none), date arrived at clinic…

“You got here two days go?” I look at him quizzically. He quirks a brow at me.

“You got a problem with that?” I think about it for a second.

“Nah.” I look back at the file. No further information. “You wanna leave, you wanna leave.” I know he’s still looking at me. I think he’s looking for something. I’ve got a killer poker face, so he’s not gonna find whatever he’s looking for.

The guy comes back out with some forms. Runs me through the procedure: I fill out the forms, come back tomorrow. The bitty will be put on a standby list while my info is being processed.

Adoptions are serious affairs; can’t let bitties be adopted by just anyone off the street. Whole databases are dedicated to making sure folks don’t abuse them or sell them or crud like that.

When my paperwork goes through in a week I can formally adopt him. Until then, I can come back and visit whenever I want.

The guy is clearly glad to be done dealing with me. I do feel bad for him; he was doing pretty well.

Paperwork in hand, I’m ready to leave. I look at the Bro again. He’s twisting the sucker in his mouth, looking out the big windows.

“So Stretch, have anything you want me to call ya? Guess we’ll be living together starting next week.” He doesn’t look at me. Shrugs noncommittally. 

Okay.

“…I’m gonna call you Carrot Top if you don’t give me a better answer than that.” He makes the most appalled expression at that. I can’t help the dirt-eating grin that stretches across my face. “Ok, you got me – Stretch it is.” He rolls his eyes. That is hilarious.

I tell him I’ll see him tomorrow when I come back in with the papers, but I won’t be back until after the paperwork goes through. Today and tomorrow were my only days off this week. Seems I’ve lost his attention since he just shrugs.

This is either going to go very well, or very badly.

Guess I’ll have to wait and see what happens when I pick him up next week.


	2. That's Fast Food For You (Fricker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look I'm so illiterate (oh wait was that alliterative?)
> 
> Bonding is made sweeter with exposition. And talking. Lots of talking.
> 
> I mean look at this delicious bonding: C12H22O11 
> 
> Yum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to Write Fiction:  
> Listen to “Left Brain Right Brain” on loop for 5+ hours.
> 
> Edit: How to Write Crack
> 
> 2nd Edit: Also How to Write Crack Fiction:  
> Pull an all-nighter then write 7 pages of an important document (that was supposed to be 10 pages) in 1.5 hours.
> 
> THEN GO WRITE SOME CRACK FICTION INSTEAD OF SLEEPING

I dropped off the paperwork the next day at the adoption center. Some employees I hadn’t traumatized were there, which was helpful.

Wandering over to the skeleton bitties, I found my guy pretty quickly.

Helps that he’s the only one wearing bright orange.

I was pleasantly met by a chorus of glares, curses, and insults from the enclosure. I’m so popular.

“Hey stranger, how’s it hanging?” I thought for a moment he was sleeping, propped up against one of the glass walls with his eyes closed, hands behind his head in the most stylized of casual poses.

When I saw a dim light appear in an eye socket I knew he had heard me. I waited to see if he would teleport right over or react at all.

He didn’t.

That’s a lazy bitty for you.

I held my hand out flat and gestured to it with my head. He cocked an eyebrow. As if he didn’t know what I meant.

“Come on bud, get over here. We need to have a chat.” His disinterested expression twisted into one of mild annoyance, but he complied, standing and giving a good stretch before popping into existence onto my palm.

“I’m here. Let’s chat.” I just needed to ask a couple of questions, get some things established before next week. I walked him over to some chairs and took a seat, offering him the window ledge to my right.

He hopped off and sat as well, letting his legs dangle off the edge. He got to lean against the flat window. I couldn’t lean back due to the dumb short back of the chair being shorter than the awful ledge jutting out from the wall straight into my shoulder blades. Awesome.

“Let’s get some things established, capiche?” He nodded at me, looking bored. I pulled the list out of my bag. He looked at the list, then back to me with a ‘what, really?’ Look.

So it was a long list. So what.

“Yes, really. I didn’t want to forget anything.” He rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything, looking back out across the shop in (feigned?) disinterest.

“First thing: ground rules. Don’t break my stuff. Don’t hide my stuff. Your stuff is your stuff, and my stuff is my stuff. Be nice to my stuff. Treat it with respect.” He looked at me.

“Nice priorities there, bud. You, uh, sure _stuff_ -ed a lot in there, huh?” 

He had a point. Not my most eloquent of sentences.

“Fair enough. The point still stands. Second: do you have any allergies?” He cracked his neck.

“Nope.”

“Good. Neither do I. Third: swearing.” I look pointedly at him. He grins lazily up at me. “I don’t curse. It’s fine if you do, but don’t make it be half of your vocabulary. I’d _really_ appreciate not being saturated in foul language in my own home. (Gods know I hear enough of that crud from everybody else in the world…)” I mutter the last bit under my breath.

He looks bemused by my self-inflicted aggravation.

“No promises bud.” I squint at him.

“We’ll discuss it later. I’m willing to make compromises.” He shrugs, bored again.

“Alright: favorite foods – including meals, snacks, and drinks.” He looked at his fingers, counting off.

“Mexican, Italian, whatever’s around for breakfast.” I add that to the note.

“Drinks? I know some Bros like honey.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it for me.” Added.

“Sounds good. How do you feel about greasy stuff and Asian food?” He snorted.

“Guess you don’t cook much, huh?” He twisted the sucker in his mouth.

“I do, actually, cook a lot. Takes a lot of time, but its worth it.” He blinked at me in mild surprise. “I like Italian as well, so we’ll be eating a lot of that. Can’t say I’m fond of or very good at making any Mexican dishes, but I have one or two you might like.”

I looked at him to be sure he was paying attention. He actually was.

“I like going out for Thai on occasion. Fried rice is delicious. I’ve got some friends from China who visit sometimes and like to bring me extra homemade stuff, so I usually have some leftovers in the fridge. I am extremely fond of all Japanese food, so I always have a bunch of that around the house.”

He’s looking at me as if I just told him I have an invisible twin. I swipe a hand over the top of my head, wondering if something got caught in my hair and he’s preoccupied staring at it.

Nope, still gawking.

“…why did you just tell me all that?” He looks boggled. I didn’t think my tastes in food were all that strange…oh. Right. I sort of…spewed information.

“…well…we’re going to be living together for an unknown length of time…?” I scratched my head awkwardly. “This isn’t a one way street, pal. I need to know stuff about you, but you also need to know stuff about _me_.” He still hadn’t reacted. Looks like he won’t be shaking off that self-inflicted confusion for a few more turns.

“Back to business. What are your usual flavors for suckers?” I point to the little stick of candy resting between his fingers. He looks down at it.

“Oh. Uh…” He wasn’t expecting that one. “…honey, watermelon…blueberry.” Huh. Neat – same stuff as me. That’s pleasantly convenient.

“Kk. Let’s get to vices: do you drink alcohol?”

“No.” 

“Smoke?”

“Nope.”

“Sleep schedule?” He squints at me. Guess I should elaborate.

“I’m a writer, Stretch. It’s what I do for a living. Every couple of weeks I flip my sleep schedule dependent on my workload. I switch from nocturnal to early riser. I prefer being a night owl, but I’m letting you know now so you don’t freak out if you see me sleep a whole day away.” That isn’t entirely true, but it’s close enough to work for now. He seems skeptical, but responds.

“I don’t have much of a schedule; I nap sometimes. You could say I do it so much I should be ar- _rest_ -ed.” I roll my eyes. The correct response. 

“Alright then.” I look back at my list. “How about outfits?” He tensed a bit. Interesting. “You want anything new, or similar to what you’ve got now – hoodies and shorts, etc?” He doesn’t respond for a bit. Seems to be debating something.

It’s been long enough for me to determine he’s not going to answer, and I’m about to ask my next question when he finally does respond. It’s quiet, so it's a good thing I was listening.

“…hoodies. Orange. Dark tank tops, black. Whatever shorts fit. Sneakers.” He’s looking at his feet.” I scribble down his answers.

In the past couple of years some creative types started producing quality bitty clothes and selling their work on sites like Etsy. A huge step up from the previous market of poorly made doll-clothes or the handmade option (aka people who actually know how to use a thread, needle, or sewing machine).

There is a real market for shoes, luckily – some major shoe retailers started producing lines for bitties once they realized they could utilize their waste material on smaller products.

“How about sneakers for outside and slippers inside? I have a shoes-off policy indoors, but house slippers are fine.” He nods once, a contemplative expression.

“Ok then – foot size?” He gives me a devious look out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a guy about the size of his feet?” My eyebrows shoot up at that. 

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were so sensitive about your enormous feet.” He blanches. Gotcha. “I can always call up the nearest circus and see if they have a size XXXS.” He’s not very impressed.

“A clown shoes joke? Really?” Wow, I am really bad at coming up with jokes on the fly.

“Really really.” At least my Shrek impressions are on point, even if no one knows I’m making a reference.

“You’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel here.”

“At least I’m not the guy making a big deal over the size of his feet.” He blushed and mumbled something. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I don’t know my shoe size, I just wear what fits.” I figured as much.

“Well, there are bitty sizes online, so I’ll just take measurements next week and we’ll order some.” He seems a bit more relaxed in my presence than he was earlier. Casual small talk will do that to you.

I look at my list. Ah. Here’s a big one.

“Do you want your own place?” He stills. The effect is immediate. I keep going. “I know a lot of folks get their bitties model houses, or order custom furniture. I get wanting privacy; I already looked up some dollhouses online if you’re interested–“ He cuts me off there with a curt reply.

“I don’t need anything.” An eyebrow inches upward on my face.

“…you sure? It’s not a problem. Plus you’ll need someplace to sleep, and I’ll bet you’d like furniture your own size.” I’m prompting him. He remains clamped.

“I’ll sleep wherever. I don’t need anything like that, really.” Hmm. Should I go for the obvious joke?

“Well I’m not gonna make you sleep on the floor – so unless you want to sleep with me that badly–“ He cuts me off again, no change in tone.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” Well. I didn’t even get a rise out of him. This is why I avoid making tasteless jokes. They never work the way they are supposed to.

But really, I gave him the perfect lead-in. Something’s up.

He’s looking across the center focusing hard on the opposing wall.

Fine. Guess it’s time for some real talk.

“Look Stretch, don’t think you’re just gonna ‘port away as soon as you get bored with my place.” His neck snaps to the left so fast I hear it crack. It’s all over his face – he’s caught, and boy was it unexpected. I’m glaring at him, but at that expression of guilt (and fear?) I try and soften it to a mild burn.

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Stretch, and neither were you, regardless of what it says on your file.” He looks down at the ledge, grimacing.

“…it was that obvious, huh?” Thought so.

“I have eyes, and a pretty decent brain between them. Wasn’t too hard to figure what you were gunning for.” I look over at the counter, making sure the employees weren’t vying for a story. Nobody was there, and the door to the back was cracked. Good, break time.

I look back at Stretch, who is avoiding my eyes.

“Look. I said I wanted your story, but I respect people’s secrets.” He looks at my face quizzically. “I’m not going to pry, and I’m not gonna demand your whole history before you come stay with me. I trust you’re a good guy and have good reasons for whatever you were planning on doing.” He looks down and to the side again.

“But I’m offering you a place to stay, free meals, the whole package. I’m not going through all this work just to see you bail on me after a week or two of freeloading. It’s…” I hesitate, scratching behind my ear. “I don’t appreciate being used like that. If you want to leave, fine. Just have it be for something I screwed up on. Don't leave me hanging without knowing why I’m being dumped.” I look back at him again.

He’s staring at me. I stare back. I want this to sink in that I’m serious.

“I’m serious about this adoption thing. I want to know that you are gonna take it seriously too.” He breaks the standoff, slowly turning to look off at the side. I give him a minute. It turns into a few more minutes. Finally he answers.

“…I won’t ditch you, kid.”

“You promise?” He flinches.

“…I hate making promises.” I look up at the ceiling, considering.

“Alright then.” I look back at him. He hasn’t turned back towards me. “Promise me you’ll at least give it a try?”

He’s silent long enough for me to consider he’s not going to do it. But he finally answers.

“…I’ll try.”

“Promise.”

“…I promise.” He’s not looking, but a demure smile found its way past my iron defenses. I hope he’ll still be responsive, since we aren’t done quite yet.

“Okay, my questions are done. Your turn.” It took a minute for the words to register, but he eventually turned and looked at me in confusion. “Yes, you. If you want to know anything before getting to my place, ask now. I can’t guarantee I have everything covered. You might think of something I missed.”

He looked down at his shoes, hunching over a bit and linking his fingers together, bringing them to his teeth in concentration.

I’m glad he is actually thinking about this. I was getting worried there when I accurately guessed he didn’t plan on sticking around.

But if he’s going to ask questions, that’s a good sign. He’s interested; he won’t ditch me off after a week of free food. I respect freeloaders (I have enjoyed the title whilst surfing the couches of friends on many occasions), but ditching me after wasting my time would _not_ be cool.

After a bit of thinking, he turned his head warily as he asked his question.

“…what’s your name?” I opened my mouth. I closed my mouth.

Oh. Yeah. That…that’s a good starter.

“Oh. Right. Sorry about that.” I sat up a little straighter. “My name is Sora, Sora Tayuya.” He nods.

“It’s…good to meet you, Sora.” I nod at him peacefully. He’s readying another question.

“Why do you want to adopt a bitty? No offense, but you, uh, don’t really seem to be the caretaker type.” I frowned. “I take excellent care of my plants – you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to keep a Venus flytrap healthy.” The ridges on his skull rise incredulously. 

“Hold up – now I don’t know much about botany, kid, but off-hand I’d say a skeleton is a few steps above a plant, girly.” Not liking _that_ nickname. “You coulda tried, I dunno, something like a hamster first. Or a cat.” He is potentially gunning for a crazy cat lady joke here. I can see it in his beady little eyes. Oooh.

“For your information I would like very much to have a cat one day. Unfortunately my current residence doesn’t allow for pets outside of bitties. Not even fish.”

“Oh, that’s _beta_ -news for you.”

“That fish joke was a _stretch_ and you know it.” He catches my retort and clutches his chest dramatically.

“Oooh, that hurts.”

“Fair enough.” I pause for a second. “I would like a cat one day. And a tortoise.” He looks unimpressed.

“That’s an interesting choice. Been thinking about that one long?” I nod.

“Wanted one since I was eight or so. Lately I’ve been more realistic and decided when I finally do get one, he’ll be a rescue tortoise, of course. Can’t go around supporting businesses that steal them from the wild.” I curse a prominent pet company under my breath.

“I’m going to name him Rock.”

“…that’s…interesting.” The look on his face says he seriously doubts my joke-telling ability, or my sanity.

So maybe it isn’t the best joke name in the world, but I’m not giving it a lot of thought. This is _far_ off in the future.

“So I can tell people I have a pet Rock.” He blinks. 

“Oh.” Yeah, not my best long-term joke. Oh well. “You didn’t really answer my question, though.” Oh, right. I deflected. Whoops. “It didn’t sound like getting a bitty was included in your grand plans.”

“Well, it, er, wasn’t my idea.” I really don’t want to discuss this in public, but he needs to know why if he’s gonna live with me. “I’ll tell you more later, but for now I’ll say this: my…erm,” I fidgeted.

“I was talking to a…therapist,” I cringed. He noticed. “–and he suggested I get a bitty for companionship.”

Dangit this is embarrassing. I think I’m flushing. Frick, he might be mad, or back out or something. Frick, this was a bad idea, I thought have rehearsed this better. My pointer finger taps against my knee hurriedly.

He’s quiet long enough for me to run through every potential response he could throw at me. Twice.

This was a bad idea, I should have said something more vague, or lied or–

“…sounds like it’s hard to talk about.” I freeze. I didn’t realize I had been so tense. I…wasn’t expecting that reaction. I look over at him. He’s looking right at me. It isn’t judgmental. But somehow, it still looks like he’s judging me.

I bite the inside of my lips. “It’s…ah, a new thing.” I look away. “I’d rather not go into it now. Here.” Though he isn’t in my line of sight, I imagine him eyeing the employees warily.

He’s quiet for another few minutes, just long enough for me to relax again, calm demeanor in place.

“I guess there is only one thing left then.” I turn my head at his voice. He’s studying me. “Why do you care so much about all this?” He attempts to make a gesture with his hand, but stops, putting it in the pocket of his hoodie. “Why drill me on so many details?” I’m surprised. That’s his big end-all question?

“I would think the answer is obvious. We’re pretty much going to be housemates from now on, and I like to know what people like and dislike when I’m living with them. I want you to be as comfortable as possible while you’re with me.” Half of his face curls into something resembling a grimace.

“I’m not–“ He sighs darkly, looking away. Bitter anger tints his voice. “Bitties aren’t _roommates_ , we’re…” He trails off. “We’re… _pets_ , not people.”

Oh.

Oh, dang.

He brought up the elephant in the room, the term I’ve been skirting around this whole process.

Pet.

Pet store.

Pet owner.

Not very PC.

…still very applicable.

I grimace. He sees and stays quiet, waiting for my response to this one.

I don’t want to get into the reality of bitties in our world. But I guess reality is inevitable. Ever since they showed up (literally out of the woodwork) years ago, their legal status has been a furious point of contention.

Classified as objects? People? Pets?

People have written entire theses on the subject, analyzing everything from the ‘discovery’ of the little monsters fifteen years ago to detailing complex international codes depicting the establishment of ‘personhood’ on sentient life forms.

But in short…yeah, humans were casually referred to still as ‘owners,’ and even the most kindly of bitty owners may refer to their bitties as ‘pets,’ regardless of how much freedom the bitties have or if they are treated like family.

Again, the idea has been getting a bit taboo in the politically correct climate of the past couple of years, but years of habit still stand.

Plus the whole mess of PC culture white washing society’s continued problems, but that is a whole other can of worms I’m not opening up.

Not to mention the scores of people who _aren’t_ kind towards the small beings. Having power over someone small can twist a person.

Regardless, the mindset of bitties as ‘pets’ is heavily ingrained in society. Referring to a bitty as ‘not a pet, a _friend_ ’ is the social equivalent to declaring you are a tree-hugger. It’s got a hippie-vibe stigma attached. Not bad per se, just…overly optimistic and idealistic.

While bitties can’t be legally sold or used for profit, adoption centers are affiliated with pet stores in certain cities: you can walk into a pet store selling cats and birds and pick up a bitty the same day. It is all very complicated.

Those places are rarer nowadays; mostly they are privately-owned shops that just haven’t gotten up to code with the newer laws requiring special containment and care for un-adopted bitties. They are no longer formally advertised as ‘pets:’ they are sentient beings, and the people working adoption clinics jump through hoops to make sure their visitors are well aware of that fact.

While they are sentient, legally they don’t have full rights as citizens of a nation. They can’t vote, they can’t live on their own, they can’t have paying jobs. They essentially have the legal standing of a child: they require a guardian to watch over them and be sure they are safe and taken care of. Legally incapable of making decisions on their own behalf.

Admittedly, for many bitties this makes sense. There are countless iterations of tiny skeleton- and other-monsters, each categorized by a dominant trait: Soft Bones sleep a lot and are pretty mild; Edgy skeletons are, well, vicious little edgy jerks. The list goes on and on.

It is a bit disconcerting to address a sentient being by their defining character trait after all. 

To get off the world-building, I have to make my intentions clear with this little guy from the beginning. I don’t want him getting the wrong ideas about me.

_I_ don’t want to get the wrong ideas about me.

“Stretch…” I have to approach this carefully. Clearly he’s got a lot of history with this term, and I don’t want to accidentally dredge up something bad by running off on a rainbows and unicorns speech about idealism. 

I have a feeling he’s heard something sappy like that before. I know what blatant spewing of assurances will do when they are later trodden over by the same person. It…isn’t pretty.

I take a deep breath and try again.

“Look. Forget about everybody else for a second. I’m the one you made the deal with. I’m the one _you_ asked to adopt you. We came to an agreement, and you figured I wasn’t half bad for a human, right?” He’s looking at me warily. Bet he’s wondering where I’m going with this.

“Well, since _I’m_ going to be your de facto caretaker –“ he grimaced slightly “ – I’m the one whose opinion matters the most to you. Doesn’t that make sense?” He nods hesitantly, still unsure what my point is.

“So if I say that I respect you as a person and want to treat you as such, I expect you to react in turn and respect me as one as well. Can you do that for me?” He’s frowning, frustrated.

“That doesn’t –“ he groans. “It isn’t that simple, that isn’t how things work –“ I glare at him. He shuts up.

“Look Stretch, we shouldn’t even need to _have_ this conversation to begin with, got it? I don’t have enough time today to debate as to whether you inherently have or deserve basic human rights like any other sentient being. However,” I take a breath. Talking takes work.

“For now I’m saying _this_ : while you’re under _my_ roof, you’re gonna be treated like any other person, albeit a rather small one who might need assistance every now and again to do stuff like channel surfing or cooking a meal out of a wok. No ‘ifs’ ‘ands’ or ‘buts’ about it, capiche?”

As I talked, his eye lights grew dimmer and dimmer, until they were pitch black.

Pleasantly enough, the taut lines and paleness of his skull made me think he wasn’t trying to call up my soul from the depths and burn it.

Which is often the case for skeleton bitties when their eyes go dark.

He does look rather mind-boggled though.

He kept staring. I got a little nervous and waved a hand in front of his face. No response. This was getting a little ridiculous; I pulled that speech out of hammer-space, no way it was affecting him this badly, for better or for worse–

He’s chuckling. He’s chuckling, there is a grin creeping up his face – oh no tell me I didn’t-

“…heh, you said–“

“I swear if you finish that line with any form of the word ‘rear end’ I will kick _your_ boney posterior into the tank with skeleton that fell out of a B-rated horror flick.” The Bro shrugged his small shoulders good-naturedly, clearly enjoying that he got me on such a juvenile joke.

Now he finally is acting like his usual (?) self. Good.

Always best to leave on a high note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I write this.
> 
> I don't trust myself to write something cohesive or witty here so I need to stop typing imme-
> 
> Catch the Pokemon reference, and you're one PokeBall lighter.
> 
> Spot the foreshadowing, and you'll have a good time.
> 
> Notice the allusion to economic theory and socio-political leaning and you are a frickin' nerd!
> 
> Did Neil Patrick Harris come up in this fic? I have no idea. I saw some unicorns, but I didn't see any fungi.
> 
> I don't recall the formal bitty name of HorrorTale Sans (Pumpkin? Horror-Sans? idk) but that is who I was talking about.

**Author's Note:**

> Man I feel like a terrible person.
> 
> I actually find most bitties really sweet (even Edgy ones, if they didn’t wreck my stuff and bite me) and I’m primarily a fan of ones modeled closely after Undertale AU characters. And I really like Runts (the crybaby UF Sans-es). I laughed so much while writing this and being sorta-accidentally-on-purpose-abrasive/mean to the little Runt. Whoops. Did totally deserve to have a bunch of Blasters to the face right there.
> 
> I considered getting an Edgy for a while, but was finding a tough way to convince him not to bite or break my stuff. Then I thought of Bros and was like “hmmm” so actually yeah, I don’t know how this is gonna go. I’m winging it. Which….I don’t do for real stories; I plan real stories like an insane person, so this is an experiment/fun story? Just messing around.
> 
> I was being really mean to this poor employee, so I cut out a lot of the rude stuff I was thinking/saying/acting towards him. Whoops my headcanon of myself is that I’m a jerk. My bad.


End file.
